Restoration and Reclamation
by E.Phoard
Summary: An attempt to reconstruct the events of season 4, particularly the conclusion, in a way that validates the experiences forced on Anna and John.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Anna had been gone for far too long. The concert would be over by the time she returned. John wasn't sure he liked opera, though he appreciated it. There was such an artifice to it, but again, such talent, and he was moved. The Puccini. Anna had left during it. The Puccini was, not beautiful, but touching. He shifted. He didn't know the words, but he understood the meaning. At the second instance of the "È bello" with its soaring resonant note, John lurched in his chair. A woman was in love with a man, and there was disapproval and strife. They were in Florence. John picked out Arno and Ponte Vecchio. He wanted to share it with Anna, this sound that had caught his soul, but she had a headache.

John wondered if he should go downstairs to check on her. She had been gone far too long. He started to rise, but then the music started again. If Anna's head hurt badly enough for her to leave the concert, she was probably lying down in Mrs. Hughes's sitting room, taking advantage of the dark and quiet. He smiled. He hated that she was missing this, but with the general busyness of the house party, she'd run herself ragged, collapsing as soon as they were home. John was glad they were all leaving in the morning. Anna usually wasn't phased by extra activity, but she'd been tired lately, and sensitive. John hoped he knew the reason. He hoped Lady Mary hadn't taken a fancy to Lord Gillingham. This aria wasn't as moving as the Puccini. It was difficult to find the sense of it. There was just something about Green John didn't like. He knew it was irrational. He and Anna had spoken about it, but he just….he didn't know why. He had spoken to Anna harshly earlier. He needed to apologize. It was his own irritation with Green, and it spilled out on her. She was without fault. She would disagree, but it was true.

The concert was over. John stood, and turned. He had time to check on Anna before Lord Grantham would need him. Green was straightening his tie. John knew what it was. He reminded John of a soldier he had known in Africa who wasn't what he seemed. Green looked nervous. That soldier had also been charming, popular, funny, but he wasn't to be trusted. Green looked up and smiled at John. John nodded. Anna was so bright she didn't see it. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps he had been made suspicious by spending so much time with so many unsavory characters. The soldier had been a swindler. John had been glad they hadn't been around many women, though there had been a native maid in the officers' quarters. John was one of the few who believed that this soldier was behind her sudden disappearance. They had been friendly. John shook his head. He should really be on his way to Anna. He smiled. She would chide him for being so concerned. He'd try to get her home as early as possible, perhaps a nice bath, tea by the fire, and tucked into their warm bed. His life really was perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Something was clearly wrong. John saw it immediately. It wasn't the different dress, or the bruises. Anna was guarded. Anna was never guarded. She was smiling and open and warm. John was willing to accept that she had blacked out and fallen. He tried to look into her eyes when she told him. She hadn't let him. Something was clearly wrong.

John was sitting in the servants hall, waiting for Lord Grantham to ring. He wanted to go home. Anna had left without him. He didn't like that. If she had fallen, she shouldn't walk home alone, in the dark. The path was mostly even, but there were a few rough places, and she might fall again. He wanted to call the doctor. The hall was hellishly noisy. John's good mood had disappeared. He just wanted to go home. At least Green had disappeared. There'd been something about the way Anna had bid him goodnight. Jimmy was whistling. Something about the way Anna had bid the both of them goodnight.

Mrs. Hughes entered, her hands full. She looked worried. John wanted to ask her how she'd found Anna, what had really happened, but she didn't slow down enough for him to try. Something was clearly wrong, and Mrs. Hughes could tell him. John wouldn't force her. He would respect what Anna told him. Mrs. Hughes seemed to have a bundle of towels. John thought that odd, for this time of night anyways. His eyes narrowed. A bit of trim peaking out from the center of the bundle caught his eye. Anna's underthings. She had admitted to staining her dress, but why would she leave her underthings? He needed to get home.

Alfred was looking for him. Nice boy, reminded John somewhat of the young Molesley. Lord Grantham said he could go home. The card game looked like it would be quite late, and he wouldn't keep him any longer. Alfred smiled as he said Lord Grantham had said he'd be able to get himself to bed this once. John thanked Alfred, and stood to leave. He'd already laid out Lord Grantham's pajamas. He really should be able to manage this once.

As John walked home, he thought of the dress. If Anna had fallen and hit her head, while drinking a headache powder, her dress wouldn't have been stained. The night was warm. Water didn't stain, and on a black dress, stains had to severe before they were noticeable. The finches were singing. Blood, if there was a quantity of it, would be noticeable. If she had hit her head hard enough to draw blood she needed to see a doctor. If she had hit her head, she needed to see a doctor. John wouldn't force her, but he believed he could persuade her. But if those were her underthings in Mrs. Hughes's bundle, something was very wrong, and he needed to know. Anna had seemed frightened, not ill. In the shadow John hadn't been able to get a good look at her face, just enough to know something was terribly wrong.

A bat soared over his head. Something hadn't been right. Something other than the dress. He stopped to look at the night. She hadn't looked like herself. The sky was clear, the air cool. She had seemed not smaller, but shrunken, as if a part of herself had been lost, and the shell of Anna remained. The wind picked up. John remembered the stories his mother used to tell him about changelings. Women, taken to faery to nurse and replaced with a shell of themselves. He shuddered. It was the wind, and the heat of the house, and the excitement of the concert. Anna would be in bed, asleep, and would laugh at him when he told her how worried he had been. She had fallen, and had hit her head, and was tired.

The cottage was dark when John arrived. Usually when one of them went home ahead of the other, they left a lamp burning in the parlor. Anna had not. If John didn't know better, he would have thought the house was empty. He had that tune stuck in his head, that infernal Puccini. Only one or two things would cause Anna to need to abandon her clothing. He took a deep breath. He would go upstairs, and Anna would be asleep in her nightgown, burrowed under the blankets in a ball, her braid messy, waiting for her him. He would undress, and join her, and she would roll into his arms without waking, and they would sleep. In the morning, all would be well. In the morning, Green would be gone. Anna had nearly jumped when Green had said goodnight. It was as if she was frightened. John hung his coat, and locked up for the night, and went upstairs.

He peeked in the bedroom, not wanting to wake Anna if she was asleep and desperately wanting to know what was wrong and what he could do. She was in bed. John felt relieved.

"Anna?" He whispered, from the doorway. No response. His cane would wake her. He leaned in the door, and limped towards the bed. "Anna, love, are you alright?" He leaned over the bed. He wanted to stroke her hair, touch her, make sure she was alright, show her he loved her. That blasted tune was still rattling around in his head. Just the one section with the high note. John reached, and Anna flinched.

He stood there, over their bed, with his hand extended. He could feel his heart in his ears. "Anna? Will you let me call the doctor?"

"No." She pulled the blankets closer to her neck, and didn't turn to face him. "I'll be fine." Her voice was hollow. "If you'll just let me sleep." Her voice was empty.

"But if you hit your head…."

"No. Please don't make me see the doctor." Her voice was wooden. John would have been happier if he had sensed some emotion.

"I won't make you." Not yet. "But you've got to allow me to worry." Usually she would turn, and melt into a smile at that. "I'll just get ready for bed. Such a long day." He wanted to tell her about the concert, but now it didn't seem right. He had hoped she might respond. If she had had a headache so severe she had fainted, and had hit her head, there was no question that she needed to see a doctor. She could have a brain injury. "I'm so sorry you missed the rest of the concert." He regretted it immediately. He looked towards the bed to see Anna start, and pull the covers even closer. "I'm sorry, I won't be much longer." He didn't think she had a head injury.

Anna had had a bath. Her towel, instead of hanging, was damp and bunched in the floor near the wall. Anna never left wet towels, even ones for the laundry, on the floor. He bent to pick it up. His back creaked, and his knees ached. How Anna could love such an old man, he would never know, but then, he never felt old with her. He smiled. Her towel was stained. Faint pink stains dotted it. Nothing severe, nothing disturbing, but blood. John leaned against the sink, and thought and counted. It wasn't time for that, not by his recokoning. That tune again. He was starting to loathe it. He looked in the tub. It appeared to have been scrubbed. He wondered, if he found her borrowed clothes, if they too would be stained. Her towel was soaked, as if she'd mopped up the residual water in the tub with it.

Anna still wasn't asleep when John returned to the bedroom. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was quiet, but John knew she wasn't asleep. Her breathing was a little too quiet. He watched her, and then gently slid into the bed. "Goodnight, Anna." He whispered, willing to play to the illusion that she was asleep, if she needed him to. She didn't answer. He arranged himself in his usual position so that she could easily roll into his arms. She could do it unconsciously. She often did. She didn't. He was close enough to feel her trembling. Shivering. He stretched out his arm, meaning to rest a hand on her head, her back, somewhere. She gasped and edged further away before he could reach her. John slowly took back his hand. "Goodnight, my love." The truth would come.

But it would be a long night. John settled in as best he could. That note, just that one passage with the impossibly high note, was all that was left of the tune. Anna was not well. The fall, the blood, the change of clothes, the distance. She may have fallen and hit her head, but that wasn't all of it. An hour passed. Anna hadn't moved. He wanted to hold her, to tell her whatever it was, it would be alright. He would make certain of it. The note was a cry of anguish. Those three syllables were all he heard. Another hour. If things were no better in the morning, he would insist Mrs. Hughes tell him. He wouldn't press Anna. Not when she so obviously didn't want to talk. Another hour. The blood, the dress, the fall, the cut on her face. He sat up, and leaned towards her. A baby. There had been a baby and now there wasn't. They had stopped talking about it, but John didn't think they had given up. He was happy with or without children, and Anna had said she was as well, but she may have had reason to hope. She had been so tired, and so moody the last few weeks, John had hoped too. She had fallen, and hit her head, and now there wasn't any reason to hope.

John rearranged himself. At Anna's age, a baby was a difficult proposition. She was so young to him, but apparently not for other things. That lost baby in her youth may have made things difficult. The baby had given her a headache, and she had felt sick, and fallen, and hit her head, and was covered in blood and in pain and didn't want to tell him because she loved him and didn't want to disappoint him. John felt a tear, unbidden, slide down his face. He wasn't disappointed. He wanted her to let him hold her against his chest and sob as much she needed to and he would tell her how much he loved her. He glanced at her. He knew if he leaned over her and looked her eyes would be wide open, starring at the wall. He wanted to tell her she didn't need to bear it alone, but he couldn't. She needed him to pretend, and for her sake he would.

For now. John sighed, and tried to dash away his tears as best he could. The note, that cry of anguish, had turned into a scream.

John bolted upright. Anna was gone. It was daylight.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

She was gone. John surveyed their bedroom. She hadn't removed all trace of herself, not in the least, but she was gone. He been informed, in that new terse manner Anna had, that she was moving back into the house while she looked after Lady Grantham and Lady Mary. It was just too much.

John ran his fingers over a dress she'd left in the wardrobe. Too much. He wondered what was too much, what she had meant by it. Living with him? Working with him? Lying to him? He knew he wasn't supposed to ask her. He had tried, and she had snapped at him, pushed him away. He didn't want to make her lie, so he hadn't asked again.

He sat on the bed. Anna's side. She had called him a bully. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. Not exactly. She had told him not to bully her. That was different. Her words had stung. He wasn't sure if she had meant for them to, or if they had simply come out. John had had experience with both instances. He fancied himself as being, at this stage in his life, rather self-aware. This self-awareness had been learned slowly, gradually, sometimes painfully, but John believed that he knew himself better than could be said for most men his age. That was why bully stung so.

He laid back, his head on Anna's pillow. Bully. He didn't understand. He loved her, cherished her; dangerous and sappy as it sounded, worshipped her. He believed that he always acted with her interests in the forefront of his mind. Granted, he had made mistakes, but to bully implied malice. Clearly he had done something which had suggested malice, bullying, to Anna, but he had no idea what it could have been. She had said it wasn't him, but it couldn't be anyone else, but she wouldn't tell him what it was, so he couldn't fix it. He would give anything to fix it, to have her home, to make things right.

Anna had made it sound habitual. In all the reflection John had undertaken in the last week, he couldn't land on anything other than the change in her since the house party. He was no longer as certain as he had been that she had lost a baby. Not all the pieces fit. The withdrawal from him, from their home and life, fit. He suspected that she would avoid any type of intimacy, and would want to keep the loss to herself. John believed that so long as Anna believed the loss to be private, it would be easier to bear the grief. He smiled. She would protect him. But she had made it sound as if bullying was expected. He had never bullied her. He hadn't really pressed her for answers, but he had to let her know he cared and wanted to know how he had failed. John's leg ached. He rolled to his side. He should really prepare for bed. She had sounded as if she had been bullied before, and expected it again. Even her brother had not affected her that way.

That was the problem. That sort of harshness, defensiveness, was not consistent with a miscarriage. There was something else she was keeping from him. He really should undress at least, even though he wouldn't be sleeping. He never slept without Anna. Something had happened. John noticed a crack in the ceiling. Anna was like a different person. He knew others had noticed. He had half-expected a comment from Thomas about her black eye, about him knocking her around, but no one seemed to actually suspect trouble between them. John certainly hadn't. He sat up, and moved to his side of the bed, and kicked off his shoes. Anna had turned into a shell of herself. That was consistent with a head injury. The blood suggested more than a head injury. He picked up a book of Greek myths, and opened to Orpheus in the underworld. Anna only spoke when spoken to. She seemed to have given up eating. John had noticed the others noticing. Alfred had nearly said something, but had stopped short. Mrs. Hughes knew what was wrong. She would have insisted on calling a doctor if she believed it necessary. John hoped. All the light was gone from Anna. John would do anything to get it back, even if it meant parting. He laid the book down.

If what Anna needed was for them to part, he would leave, quietly. He would take his old case, and his books, be gone from her life in an instant. If he could only know why.

John picked up the book, and turned a page. It wasn't what she needed. It wasn't even what she wanted. She was protecting him. Something was terribly wrong, and she needed him. If he could only know why.

John made a decision. Orpheus had gone to Hades to claim his wife. It was clear he needed to do the same.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

John had waited at the foot of the stairs every morning for eight mornings. If he couldn't wake up next to Anna, with Anna, before Anna, the next best thing was seeing her as soon as he could. Thomas was curious as to what had happened to them, but he had had the good taste for once to hold his tongue. John hoped, he believed, that in time Anna would soften towards him and if not return home, at least tell him what was wrong. He knew that quiet persistence was the only way.

Anna wasn't softening. If anything, his persistence was annoying her. John fancied that the change in her was obvious to all who knew her. Anna could keep her feelings to herself, but this was different. There was Ivy. Nice girl, if only Daisy would lighten up a bit. John was certain anyone who interacted regularly with Anna knew something was wrong. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and all the light gone from her eyes. He only hoped the others were as puzzled as he was. She said it wasn't him, John knew it wasn't her, which meant either she was lying or it was something else. Anna wasn't lying. Thomas was laughing. Anna was lying, but not about it not being him.

Mrs. Hughes bustled by. She glanced at him, and then down. She glanced at the top of the stairs, and then away. John stared at her. She didn't look at him, but she knew. John felt his jaw tighten. She hadn't looked him in the face since the night of the concert. She knew.

John stifled a yawn. He heard Anna's footsteps, soft, determined, but less quick, on the stairs. He hadn't slept since she left. He saw her first. She looked hollow. She saw him. He took a deep breath, and tried to smile. Anna didn't try. Her black eye was fading, but both eyes were sunken. She stopped, and gathered herself, and looked exasperated. It was the same every morning. He would find out. Orpheus had failed to retrieve his wife from Hades. John looked at the ceiling as Anna passed into the servants hall. At least she had tried to smile about Miss Baxter. It hadn't been a proper smile, but she had tried. John thought he could bear it if she had some spirit to her, but not this bitterness. He knew he could bear it if she didn't look so dead.

John straightened his back, and went in to breakfast. He might fail to retrieve Anna, but today he would find out what had dragged her down to Hades.


End file.
